Say words Not many, even Just some
by BlindAssassinUK
Summary: What happened after the smiling and laughter stopped. Inspired by that lovely end scene in "Virgins".


_**That talk between Nick and Walt in "Virgins" made me think. Nick **__**does**__** think a lot when his feelings are on the line and maybe he thinks and thinks in lieu of making an actual decision, or to avoid facing the realities of actions he's taken or not taken. Also, he's pretty hopeless at owning up to his feelings. It's a challenging combination and one that I think may cause some problems for this burgeoning romance heading into next season. That's if, of course, Nick & Jess end up together at the end of this season.**_

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**Say words. Not many, even. Just some.**

He wonders if other people, steady people, ever have the urge to stop time? Do they ever experience the panic-inducing desire to avoid the passing of the day and slip comfortably into the more forgiving lull of evening, and just stay there? Or maybe they, too, understand what it's like to want to hold onto a moment tightly in case every good feeling that's coursing through you can't be replicated or faithfully remembered?

That's where he's at right now…

~O~

Because losing how you feel, not remembering it correctly or anything in between is about the scariest thing you can imagine. And so you try to memorise the sound of her breathing next to you. You close your eyes and recall, almost, the feeling of her kissing you back. How she sighed into the hollow of your throat when your body sought to make sense of hers. And it doesn't matter that many hours of night stretch before you, that nobody will be home for hours, that you have time with her, because all you can think about is the inevitability of a Californian sunrise.

You chance a look to your left. She's staring up at the bedroom ceiling, her shoulder, her arm, her hip and her leg pressed against you. She's so warm, so soft. You worry that your hairy man arm and shoulder, your bony hip, your hairy legs, in comparison, are bothering her, but she doesn't seem to mind. In fact, if anything, she seems to be snuggling in closer. The movement of her leg coming to rest over yours, her smaller foot now nestling against your ankle, has made the bedclothes lift and then billow, and warm, slightly stale air (why didn't you wash the sheets these past two weeks?) rises from below and it makes the long tendrils of her hair, which are draped over your shoulder, tickle your skin. In contrast, she smells of being clean, being Jess. And some kind of fruit. Coconut, maybe. _Wait. Is coconut a fruit or a nut? Not important._ You breathe her in.

You, in equal parts, want her to look back at you and keep her gaze trained someplace else. Because it's been a few minutes since you both stopped laughing and many seconds since what happened in this bed could be categorised as inducing the type of shock that tends to follows when you finally and unbelievably get what you want. You know, the kind of shock that permits temporary speechlessness. Jess is naked in your bed. Naked against you. So, yeah, you need to say something. And you need to show her. Hold her. Kiss her. Tell her that she's this beautiful thing to you. Tell her what this means to you. Tell her that you want this to carry over into the morning and for all the days after. Because, Jesus, you know what she sounds like when she comes and how her eyelids flutter, and then close as she makes it out the other side. You know for sure that you want to be the only man that ever gets to hear that again. She also knows the same secret things about you. And you're both here in is this moment. This moment that you should fill with words, not thought, before it becomes too big for you both to handle and it collapses in on itself.

_Say words. Not many, even. Just some._

She's still staring up at the ceiling. Her breathing is measured, too regular in this moment, and it's clear that she's willing you to say something. Breathing comes just as easy to you, because you, too, are faking. Inside, you're breathless, spinning out of control, air forced from your lungs as you pinball off the walls you've built around yourself.

Words. Always_ just_ words. Words are the only sounds you make, and then only to yourself. You can't speak through your actions. No. You used up all your reserves when you chased after her and brought her to bed. You finally quit thinking and it got you this far, but now all you have are your words, and you really want to speak brave ones.

_Say words. Not many, even. Just some._

You know it's a pattern. You're not completely above self-diagnosis. You do still care why it is that you do the things you do. Mostly. Because you've _always _done things this way. The evidence is plain to see, and it's pretty pathetic.

You never told Amelia.

You skirted around being honest with Julia and Angie.

Caroline didn't even know how much you cared about her until she broke your heart.

You want to do better this time. Jess deserves the truth. You deserve the chance to see what she makes of it. _ So…just speak._

But you don't. Not yet. Instead you do something without thinking. You reach for her hand. When you feel her fingers slip between your own, you are truly amazed. Because that's not something you do. You rarely leap. You've never been that guy. You told her that.

She's holding you back. Her breathing is shallow now and you know yours sounds the same way. Now you can speak. Now you say words. Not many, even. Just some. And they are brave ones.

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**_In the words of Mr. Nick Miller (only backwards and not correct at all, really): "I gave you cookie. Give me cookie." - that's code for reviews would be lovely. _**

**_Thanks for reading. :)_**


End file.
